


name of the game

by futuredescending



Category: Mamma Mia! (2008), Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again (2018)
Genre: Awkwardness, Bondage, M/M, courtesy handjobs, post-Mamma Mia Here We Go Again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 03:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15427653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: “So, you have a thing for being tied up?” Bill asked after a long moment of too comfortable silence.Harry blinked long and slow as his muddled brain attempts to make sense of the question, and why he should be very alarmed....in retrospect, that third glass of scotch had been inadvisable.





	name of the game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reindeerjumper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/gifts).



> Set after _Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again_ , so, you know, spoilers for that. Also, Carly is the worst/best.

Bill showed up on a Saturday, just as Harry was about to step out for the night with the vague intention of finding a bar of a particular persuasion and, if he was lucky and didn't put his foot in his mouth as usual, finding some companionship, even for just one night. Honestly, it was the best he could hope for these days.

But just as he had made one last critical study of himself in the mirror—by God, he was getting old—and went to open the door, he pulled up short at the sight of Bill practically leaning on the door frame. "Bill!"

A multitude of questions crowded at the tip of his tongue, all clamoring to be first out the gate, but they died upon taking in his friend's downtrodden appearance.

The man was hardly a fashion plate to start with, but even his usual loudly patterned button down looked overworn by several days, wrinkled and stained. His hair was greasy and lank, his trousers sported several streaks of dirt and God knew what else, but perhaps most telling of all were Bill’s flat eyes where they had once glimmered with mirth and dark circles bruising the skin beneath them, all set within a pale and drawn face. At his feet lay a single bag stuffed full of what Harry could only imagine were all his worldly belongings.

"I'm sorry for dropping by unannounced, Harry," Bill said. "But I had nowhere else to go."

Harry blinked, then startled back to his senses and stepped back a moment too belated to have been natural, holding the door wide open. "Please, come in."

Bill nodded gratefully, picked up his bag, and stepped over the threshold into Harry's flat with the tentative curiosity of a first-time visitor. Harry could only imagine what he was thinking as Bill's gaze scanned over the almost austere, modern decor, the leather sectional, the granite countertops, the floor to ceiling windows of the Thames and the glittering lights of Greenwich beyond it. "Nice place," is all he remarked before a mischievous grin stole across his mouth. "Do you actually live here?"

Harry gave him a rueful smile. "Sometimes." More truthful than even Bill could know. The majority of his life these days was spent at the office where he spent more time on his leather couch than he did in his own bed. He might have had more changes of suits and shirts there than he did in his own flat. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"I wouldn't say no to something strong." Once Bill had seemingly finished his perusal of Harry's flat, he settled on studying Harry himself—a long, merciless gaze that Harry felt in every step of his way to the sideboard. Whatever the sorry case was for his own less than fashionable appearance, Bill wasn't ignorant so as to not recognize the effort put into Harry's own. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your plans for the evening. I can go?"

"They weren't much in the way of plans," Harry assured him, his cheeks heating up, as if to admit to his original intentions would have meant admitting to his desperation. "In fact, the moment you showed up, the alternative was a whole lot better."

There was a question still hanging heavy in the air as Harry poured out a couple fingers of his good single malt each, but Bill remained silent until Harry handed him his glass. He took one bracing sip, sighing in appreciation, before the truth could emerge: "Rosie and I ended it."

The _again_ went unsaid.

It wasn't, sadly, all that surprising. "I'm sorry," Harry nevertheless said, and still meant it too. Rosie was really gone for Bill, Harry knew, but she was also far too sensible not to know a doomed love affair when she saw one. He half suspected she knew her and Bill’s shelf life would be short even on the second go around, but circumstances at the time understandably ran roughshod over common sense.

But Rosie, with her own resiliency, Tanya, and her strong support network of friends, would be fine.

No, it was Bill he was more sorry for. Bill who was keenly aware of his own shortcomings and had actually pinned quite a bit of his own hopes on this one. That he could stay the course. That he could be the sort of man who didn’t disappoint. Remained true. Could be relied upon.

In losing Rosie, Bill had also lost those illusions as well, a blow that probably hurt worse than the actual loss of the relationship itself.

From a man who spent most of his life trying to convince himself he was straight as a yardstick, Harry understood rather all too well.

“I suppose I should have known better, right?” Bill laughed a little. It was a thin, weak sound. He reached up and ran a nervous hand through his hair, grimacing at the feel before abandoning the gesture halfway through and letting his hand drop back by his side. “Now look at me. Pathetic. I bet Rosie’s relieved she dodged a bullet there.”

It was disconcerting to see a man who was usually so confident to the point of seeming arrogance be so despairing. Especially a man who had been nothing but kind and accepting when Harry himself was still sorting out his own multitude of neuroses. “Oh, Bill. You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want, but I do insist you sit down before you collapse.”

With a nod to the expensive seating, Harry trailed after Bill and chose a seat at the end of the sectional while Bill sank down into the chair adjacent, relaxing and easing into its contours with enviable grace. It’s what Harry always liked about him, how adaptable he was to anything thrown into his path. So easygoing. So relaxed about where life would take him, even anticipatory for that great unknown. So unlike Harry himself, who was anxious about everything and anything.

“We were talking about buying a house, actually,” Bill began after some length, his thumb swiping back and forth across the rim of his glass. “Which, in and of itself, didn’t set off any alarms. It sounded nice, having a homebase for once. I suppose I’m not getting any younger. But...then she started talking about what sorts of plants she’d like out front in the windows, how often she’d need to water them, whether they’d get enough sun...I don’t know, Harry. Something inside me snapped. I couldn’t breathe. The thought of it, day after day, for the rest of my life, worrying about mundane things like planters and gardening and all of that..with a woman I liked. A woman I liked so much….”

“But couldn’t love,” Harry said in the silence that ensued in Bill’s wake.

Bill looked up at him sharply as if yanked from his melancholy musings. He didn’t look happy about it either. “I did love Rosie. I mean...I do...I….” What had begun as heated defense devolved into a confused stutter. Bill looked utterly lost.

Harry smiled gamefully. “It’s alright, Bill. I’m not one to judge. I just think...perhaps you and Rosie ultimately need different things.”

Harry had hoped to sound comforting, which is why he was quite alarmed at the way Bill’s face suddenly crumpled. “I tried so hard, Harry, to be the man she wanted me to be...I thought...I thought after Donna and….I thought I could change. I wanted to change.”

Bill’s slumped shoulders and the defeated curve of his back signified how well that battle went. “Well. If you need somewhere to stay,” Harry said, privately congratulating himself on not sounding too awkward, “I have a guest bedroom.”

A whole spectrum of emotions flickered across Bill’s face: surprise, sorrow, gratefulness, embarrassment, and then finally settling on resignation. “It won’t be for too long,” he promised. “You know me. I get restless. I just...I just think I need a bit of quiet for a little while. To regroup.”

Yes, of course, Harry wanted to say. Good old, adventurous, thrill-seeking Bill. Always went where there wind took him. At that moment, Harry was consumed with so much fondness for the man, he reached out and laid a hand upon Bill’s knee. “You’re welcome here for as long as you need.”

Bill’s gaze went to Harry’s hand, traveled up his arm, and then met Harry’s eyes. A soft smile curved his lips. His blue eyes held a little bit of their old light. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry wanted to deny the way his heart skipped a little, or the way his stomach fluttered. He wanted to deny the way molten heat shot through him from where his hand still touched Bill, like he was absorbing energy from Bill’s body. He had a lifetime of practice in doing so, after all.

Because within those thoughts lay a dangerous path he didn’t wish to embark upon, no, not at all. Not after Donna, not after Rosie. No, Bill was a friend. A co-parent, of sorts. He was a playboy, an adrenaline junkie, and, arguably the most important factor in all of this, most definitely very, very straight.

But still there was that stupid small voice in the back of his head that spoke at the most inopportune times. _So were you, once._

 

_____

 

And, later:

“So, you have a thing for being tied up?” Bill asked after a long moment of too comfortable silence.

Harry blinked long and slow as his muddled brain attempts to make sense of the question, and why he should be very alarmed.

In retrospect, that third glass of scotch had been inadvisable, but Bill hadn’t seemed keen on heading to bed straightaways—”Too much of a night owl, I’m afraid.”—and Harry felt obligated to keep him company, which meant refreshing their glasses and listening sympathetically while Bill poured his heart out with increasing emotion and slurring.

Subsequently, Harry had been lured into a hazy, half-drunken torpor, heavy eyed and lax in his chair, like his spine had become fused with the cushion. He was slouching. He never slouched. Something about his mother telling him if he wanted to recline, he ought to go lie down in bed.

“I don’t...I never...what?” His cheeks would probably be hot with embarrassment by now if they weren’t already flush from the booze.

“When we were in Greece last year,” Bill said. “And you tied your hands behind your back.” He mimed the action except keeping his hands in front of him, crossing them at the wrists and flexing just a little so that the fine muscles of his sun tanned arms bulged attractively.

Harry was momentarily dazzled.

Then he shook his head to clear it—which, a mistake, that—blinked repeatedly until his vision settled down, and was forced to recall yet another humiliating moment from his past. “Ah.” But Bill didn’t seem to find that response sufficient if his expectant look was anything to go by, so Harry opened his mouth again. “That was...it’s a problem-solving technique, as I explained. We do it all the time,” he flapped a hand, “in work training exercises. Things of that nature. I first read about it in a book and successfully employed it many times throughout my career.”

He had wanted to impress Bill, Harry recalled, who always effortlessly impressed him with his entire lifestyle. His entire existence and _joie de vivre_. Show Bill that even if Harry’s world consisted of expensed lunches and being on guard over nothing more dangerous than a dip on the LSE, he could still contribute something useful. Except he had to have Bill tie the knot that one time, and Harry didn’t know what Bill did to make the knot be so tight and absolutely impossible to undo. Then, in burgeoning panic, he had tried to at least separate himself from the chair because Bill was leaving him behind, and apparently some Greek establishments didn’t believe in sensible safety features like railings for their massive windows so that fools like him couldn’t accidentally fall out of them whilst still tied to their chairs.

Bill didn’t outright laugh at him now, but his eyes were back to their usual glinting merriment, if perhaps a little unfocused. “That’s not usually the first technique I’d resort to when I have a problem.”

“I find it effective,” Harry huffed, then grimaced. “Usually.”

“Alright,” Bill said agreeably enough.

“And it’s not...I don’t have a thing for it. It’s not a thing. You make it sound so...tawdry,” Harry added, while he was on a roll with airing his grievances. “And anyways, it was your fault.”

“Me?”

“For leaving me behind. And tying the ropes wrong. I don’t know what you did, but it wasn’t correct. If Sky hadn’t been there….”

“You asked a sailor to tie your rope, I’m going to make sure it’s secure!” Bill defended.

“That wasn’t the point of the exercise, which you not only failed to comprehend—” Bill scoffed, incredulously, but Harry soldiered on, “—but then abandoned altogether like a child with attention deficit disorder.”

“You assured me they weren’t too tight.”

“They weren’t, they were just bloody impossible. I wasn’t a boat needing to be docked!”

“Sounds like someone needs a bit more docking these days,” Bill muttered.

“Which was on the agenda for tonight if someone hadn’t shown up!”

Harry shut his eyes with immediate regret. But when he opened his eyes again, Bill didn’t seem hurt by his frustrated remarks so much as thoughtful.

“You know,” Bill mused, “We only ever get around to talking about my relationship woes.”

“Which I’m quite content should remain the case,” Harry quickly replied.

“It’s quite selfish of me,” Bill went on as if having not heard. “I’ve proven to be a man who can’t really be tied down, but you, Harry….”

“Oh, please God no.”

“...you struck me as someone who would very much welcome a long-term relationship. And yet you are also perpetually single. Why?”

“If you think being a stuffy banker’s a hit with the ladies, imagine how well it goes over with the gays.”

Bill just shook his head. “That’s not who you are, Harry. Not at all. Not really.”

“Bill,” Harry said in his let me be serious for a moment voice, “The only considerable amount of time we’ve ever spent in each other’s company was on a surreally gorgeous island in the Mediterranean under extraordinary and emotionally vulnerable circumstances.”

“Yes, and?”

“And that’s not everyday. It can’t be.”

“Well, why not?” Bill countered as if his argument were a perfectly reasonable proposition. “Were they not some of the most important moments of our lives? Some of the best, all things told?”

“They’re some of my most cherished memories,” Harry acknowledged. “But they were special because those circumstances could never be replicated in real life.”

“Real life,” Bill snorted. “They were every bit as real as us two here are right now. The only difference is you choose to hide yourself away. As if being happy is something only reserved for holidays.”

“I am happy,” Harry insisted. “Sometimes. Frequently enough. I’ve no complaints.”

“But for my preventing you from trawling the clubs for a hookup.”

“You cannot seriously be judging me right now. You, of all people.”

“And I’m not!” Bill held out his hands in surrender. “I’m the last person who could. But Harry, I know you. I know this sort of thing doesn’t make you happy.”

Gaping a bit like a fish, Harry found himself run out of excuses and denials. “And so what if it doesn’t? What other choice have I got?” It was as close to an admission of loneliness as he would ever get. “I’m not you, Bill. Women don’t just swoon at my feet upon hearing my name or what I do.”

“Which would be an opportunity lost on you, I’m afraid.”

“No one’s ever held a torch for me for over twenty-five years….”

Bill winced. “And look how that ended up.”

“It just seems like great romances are for other people. Not me,” Harry concluded, draining the last his of glass.

Finally, Bill didn’t immediately come back with another argument. A soft sort of sadness shone in his eyes as he reached out and laid a warm, callused palm across Harry’s knee just like how Harry had touched him earlier. “Not for me either, Harry.”

A détente, of sorts.

 

_____

 

“I could show you some of it,” were the first words out of Bill’s mouth upon exiting the shower, clad only in a towel cinched around his waist.

Harry, who had chosen to wait out Bill’s ablutions by refilling his glass with the last of his scotch and wallowing on the couch instead of downing a gallon of water and going to bed, blinked and found any words he wanted to say evaporated from his mind, unlike the moisture still clinging to Bill’s not-at-all toweled off skin. Honestly, was the man planning on shaking himself dry like a dog?

His throat was quite dry, actually which really made the drops of water running down the hard lines of Bill’s sternum a tempting refreshment.

“You have a remarkable affinity for non sequiturs,” Harry managed to croak.

“I mean how to tie a few knots,” Bill said, emerging from the shadows of the hallway to step into into the dim light of the living room. “To help with your problem-solving.”

Oh how Harry wished the couch could simply absorb him right now. “This again. Look, can we just...forget about all of it? I promise you I’m over it. I’m wasn’t even that mad. I’m just tired.”

“I’m serious,” Bill said, as if Harry wasn’t. He rounded the coffee table and sat down next to Harry on the couch, seemingly unconcerned about only wearing a towel. “I’ve given it some thought, and I feel a bit guilty about leaving you in a bind.”

“So to speak.”

Bill grinned. “The least I could do to make it up to you would be to show you the ropes. So to speak—”

“—You really don’t have to do that—”

“—that way, you’ll know how to get out of them—”

“—Also not the point of the problem-solving technique—”

“—should you ever find yourself in such a scenario again. Self-inflicted or otherwise,” Bill finished.

Harry stared at him. “Or otherwise.”

Bill shrugged, but then said quite earnestly, “You won’t always know when you’ve accidentally stepped into conflicted territory between two rival tribes in the Congo, Harry.”

“...that’s not exactly something I thought I’d have to worry about.”

“The reason for my success is because I like to be prepared for any eventuality,” Bill said, holding out his hand to reveal...was that one of Harry’s ties?

“That’s Italian silk,” was the only thing Harry could think to say.

Bill frowned and regarded the crushed tie in his hand. “Is it? Huh. The fabric will loosen easily enough for our purposes.” Which was as far as his concern lasted, because in the next moment, he was pulling Harry’s unresisting hands together and winding it between and around his wrists before securing it. “Round Turn and Two Half Hitches. Very reliable. Trying pulling on this end, it only gets tighter, see. They hang you up by your wrists from the ceiling, you won’t be problem-solving your way out of that one any time soon.”

Harry reflexively tugged on his bindings. The cool fabric felt remarkable good against Harry’s skin, he could admit. The constriction was...pleasant. Instead of instilling a sense of helplessness, he felt strangely, dreamily secure.

“The key to undoing it, you see is relieving the tension here….” Just as deftly, Bill’s fingers loosened and unraveled the knot as quickly as he had tied it, manipulating Harry’s wrists this way and that to bring the two ends of the tie together and loosely knot it. “Figure Eight Knot. Jams under strain. Also good for rock climbing. Try that one on for size.”

Harry stared at his bound wrists, swallowing. Oh, but this was bad. Very bad. Between Bill’s bare chest and the way he could just reach out with his tied hands to stroke it. “And you’re so certain my would-be captors would use this particular knot to tie me up with.” 

“Anyone worth their salt would know how to tie a good rope.”

“I imagine all of this would be considerably more difficult with one’s hands tied behind one’s back,” Harry pointed out.

Bill leaned forward far too much into Harry’s space to the point where his hands came to rest upon Bill’s chest because it was simply there for the touching. “I’ll let you tie me up after and show you how to get out of it.”

“We can do that later,” Harry practically squeaked, eyes glued to all the places where the tips of his fingers pressed lightly into wondrously hard muscle.

Bill followed Harry’s gaze to his own chest and Harry’s hands, retraced the lines of Harry’s arms to his dilated pupils and slightly parted lips that were emitting breaths that were too quick and too shallow, and then traveled down to the rigid, unmistakable line of Harry’s trousers. “Oh. You really do have a thing for this.”

Harry silently willed himself to calm down, but apparently not even copious amounts of whisky could defeat months—months!—of pent up energy. He shifted his hips, wincing at how that action did absolutely nothing to alleviate the intense, demanding pressure. “Bill. I’m so sorry….” he began, gearing up for another humiliating and long winded explanation of his failures.

“Would you like for me to take care of that?” Bill asked.

Harry’s mind shorted out. “I….sorry, what?”

“That.” Bill nodded to Harry’s erection like it hadn’t been obvious the first time. “Least I could do since I ruined your plans for the evening, and since I caused it.”

To put it delicately: “That’s...that’s not something one really does for another person as consolation.”

“Is it not?” Bill said as if it was news to him. “I don’t see why not. We’re friends who can help each other out once in awhile. I’ve done it before. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

 _Friends. Help each other out. I’ve done it before._ Words weren’t computing. Or perhaps reality wasn’t. Finally all Harry could think to blurt out was, “But you’re straight!”

“Harry, I’m an adventurer,” Bill said simply liked that explained everything. It really, really didn’t.

Was this some odd Scandinavian overly-courteous mentality? Harry didn’t know. What he did know was that his hands were still petting Bill’s chest. He dropped his hands to his lap like he’d scalded them, only to bite off a moan when he inadvertently palmed his own groin.

Bill gave him a sympathetic look, which wasn’t exactly arousing, and then gently coaxed Harry’s hands up to his chest, leaving the outline of his very, very hard cock all too exposed. “Well?”

The scent of his own body wash on Bill’s skin warred with the dull roar of blood rushing in his ears warred with the tingling sensation across his heated skin warred with the pulsating throb coming from his own cock. He’d been carried away before, in Kalokairi, with the crowds and the heat and the sheer, heady energy. Didn’t let himself think or worry, simply feel and be. He was feeling light headed enough now to recall that feeling acutely. Maybe that was actually just all the blood in his head rushing down south instead. Robbed of the ability to speak, he only nodded, too quick, too eager.

Bill wasted little time in undoing the button and fly of Harry’s trousers, and even as Harry’s hips arched up, his bound hands rose above his head to clutch the back of the couch, needing to hold on to something. He couldn’t look down, found the featureless white ceiling preferable to stare at while Bill’s so very warm hand circled around his cock and freed him from his briefs and trousers. He certainly couldn’t look Bill in the eye.

At the first concerted touch to his cock that belonged to a hand other than his own, Harry’s head hit the back of the couch, having abruptly lost the ability to hold it up. There was a marvelous contrast between the building heat in Bill’s hand and the cooler air of the flat. Bill’s grip was strong and sure, unfaltering. Worn, toughened skin stretched across his palm, a bit too dry, but even that was soon remedied by the slick pre-come he palmed on every upstroke, wetting his hand, swiftly gliding back down and practically rebounding back up almost immediately in a fast, workman-like rhythm.

Harry dug his fingers into the leather, curled his toes, then bit his lip, couldn’t help the sharp gasp that slipped past them, nor the low moan or the sharp, sucked in breath. Absurdly, he almost wished there was music playing. Something to make the slick, fleshy sounds of Bill wanking him off sound a little bit less obscene. He tugged on his bindings, and the unyielding tightness sent another bolt of want through him. Liked the way he couldn’t separate his hands, imagined, even, they were tied to the back of the couch and he was utterly helpless beneath Bill’s punishing rhythm.

His climax came embarrassingly quick, probably saved from complete and abject shame by his advanced years and advanced stage of inebriation, but he only needed to tug his hands minutely apart one last time, twist his wrists a little to let the silk bite into his skin, before he was coming all over Bill’s hand and his own dress shirt with a weak whimper.

As he melded with the couch in the aftermath, Harry idly noted Bill standing up, wiping his hand on his towel, which was miraculously still hanging off his hips...and the prominent erection that tented it. It was a practically a beacon—Harry’s attention couldn’t waver from it even if he it wanted to.

“Should...should I…?” he asked, finally tearing his gaze away to meet Bill’s eyes, glad his face still persisted in wearing its tomato red flush since the second glass and too dazed to feel awkward about this anymore.

Instead of recoiling in horror or retaliating against the threat to his sexuality, Bill merely looked from his erection to Harry, then back again as if surprised. “Oh, that’s not really necessary. This was supposed to be just for you, after all.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Harry said politely. What he really wanted to say was, _I want to suck your brains out through your cock, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble._

Bill made a gesture as if to say, _if you’d like,_ in his Swedish congenial way, and started to lean forward. “Here, I can untie your—” which was all he managed to get out before Harry tore the towel from his body, wrapped his hands around the base of Bill’s cock and balls, and swallowed the rest of him down.

It was one of the most impulsive things Harry had ever done, the total number of which could be counted on one hand: sleeping with Donna, following Donna to Kalokairi, shagging Petros, a man he just met, on the night of his daughter’s hen do, and now this: accepting a handjob from Bill Anderson and sucking his cock in return. Well done, him. He thinks somewhere out there, Donna would be proud.

He’s not quite as talented with his mouth as Bill was with his hands, but he’s doing a lot better in this pursuit than speaking, and Bill showed his appreciation quite vocally, his hands winding themselves through Harry’s hair. The occasional sharp yanks to his scalp matched the sensation of his bound wrists, and if Harry hadn’t just come already, he might have been able to at least get it up again out of sheer lust.

Nonetheless, his efforts, however graceless, proved successful enough when Bill’s hands tightened in his hair in warning. Harry pulled off Bill’s cock with a slurp and used his hands, both of them, still tied tightly together as they are, to stroke Bill to audibly loud completion, letting Bill’s climax join the cumulative stains on his shirt.

He wouldn’t be able to look his dry cleaners in the eye after this.

When he caught his breath, Bill was quick to release Harry from his bindings before he straightened and regarded him with a sigh and a nod. “Well. That was nice. Thank you.” Like Harry had handed him the salt after being asked.

“You’re welcome,” he said automatically, because he was English. “Same to you.”

He averted his eyes when Bill bent down to reclaim his fallen towel, securing it back around his waist like he was still trying to preserve some last shred of non-existent modesty. Belatedly, he realized he also ought to tuck himself back into his own trousers, for that matter.

“Right then,” Bill said, curiously diffident for the first time since Harry had known him. “I should...get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“It has been,” Harry agreed, though every word felt like the wrong one to say, except, he didn’t know what it was he should be saying in the first place. “I’ll see you in the morning?” And why he made it a question, Harry didn’t know. Everything simply was...uncertain.

“Ah. Yes, of course,” Bill said before laying a hesitant hand on Harry’s shoulder that then lingered just a little too long. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He wanted to cover Bill’s hand with his own, reaffirm that touch, steal a bit more of Bill’s warmth, but….

“Sleep well, Bill,” he said instead, affording him a smile that was more confident than he felt, watching Bill skitter away to the guest bedroom.

Even as his limbs felt heavy and the scent of sex was still pungent on his clothes.

Even as his wrists still bore the red stripes of his secret desires and the forbidden taste of Bill still lingered on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Come shout at me on tumblr: [futuredescending](http://futuredescending.tumblr.com)


End file.
